


Long Neon Nights

by skyline



Category: Big Time Rush
Genre: Gay Bar, Humor, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-15
Updated: 2012-04-15
Packaged: 2017-11-05 11:10:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/405742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyline/pseuds/skyline
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kendall shakes his head, sinks his fingernails into James’s shoulder, and hisses, “Some guy just tried to kiss me.” James’s lips press together, the corners curving into a smirk. He murmurs, “You don’t say.” “Uh huh, I do, I just said,” Kendall insists, taking the smirk for disbelief, which, whatever, he’s a hotass. Just because James doesn’t think so doesn’t mean a reasonably attractive man at a bar can’t find him good-looking and want to give him mouth to mouth, alright?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Long Neon Nights

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sick_Banjo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sick_Banjo/gifts).



> Prompt fill for jblostfan16 at Livejournal, who wanted James being Kendall's fake boyfriend at a gay bar.

They’ve been bar hopping all evening, swaggering from the neon glow of one lounge to the bright electric luminescence of another and so on and so forth. Like fucking pioneers they’ve found all the cracks and crevices and comfy nooks where LA’s alcoholic crowd whiles away the nights. They’ve stumbled through conversations with celebutantes and hipsters; frat boys and the sophisticated business crowd and weathered old goats. And it’s great, because the night’s barely half over.  
  
Kendall’s built up a pretty good buzz, the kind where the whole world sparkles with possibilities. His fingers itch for a guitar. His throat yearns for a song. His feet want to dance. He longs for too many things, all at the same time. But mostly, he wants to keep drinking.  
  
The place they’re in now has all this wooden siding and sawdust on the floors, emulating an old western saloon. Ruining the illusion are the huge plasma screen TVs mounted between lassoes and sheriff’s stars and printed cactus graphics. There are these charming little neon signs hanging around the bar in the shapes of a crescent moon and an armadillo, spurs and a pistol. Everything is done up in the western motif. And then there’s the DJ, who keeps the music at a steady pulse, thrumming through Kendall’s bones.  
  
He thinks the theme bar is a little tacky for a place that sells twenty dollar margaritas, but he’s pretty happily drunk, and he’s too involved in a fervent conversation about hockey with some dude at the bar to concentrate on nitpicking. Besides, it’s not his party; this guy Rocque Records represents is getting hitched, and this is basically his last stand before he shackles himself down forever. He threw out the invitation to BTR as a courtesy. Gustavo absolutely forbid them from going…which of course meant the guys had to come out.  
  
Kendall’s not huge on marriage as an institution, but he likes the idea of love and being in love and drinking on behalf of love, so he’s basically a big supporter of this whole shindig. Out on the dance floor, Carlos is getting his shimmy on, working up and down through the sawdust and basically impressing everyone in his path. Logan’s sticking pretty close to the group they came with, even though they’re downing row after row of flaming Dr. Peppers.  
  
James, as always, is right in the center of the action, flitting from one end of the bar to the other, down onto the dance floor and back again. He’s a social butterfly in leather pants.  
  
Kendall grins and takes a sip of his drink, which is this girly mixed cocktail that mostly tastes like a banana smoothie, but he digs that. What he doesn’t exactly appreciate is the temperature in this place. There is desert heat building beneath the collar of his shirt. He considers shrugging out of the flannel, and then he does, because hey. It’s like eighty degrees outside and they’re in the middle of LA and he is not the only guy in the room walking around in a wife beater.  
  
All the same, the dude he’s talking to stops short, watching as Kendall fans himself.  
  
“It’s hot as fuck in here,” Kendall explains earnestly, stroking his glass. Water beads on the outside, wetting the ravine of Kendall’s palm. It feels nice. Everything feels _nice_.  
  
The guy he’s talking to shrugs and goes back to debating the merits of the Ducks, like they have any. But see, Kendall isn’t so drunk that he misses the looks that some of the other guys around the bar are throwing him. He figures there’s got to be a reason for it, but a precursory check of his own body doesn’t reveal any pit stains or dirt or whatever, and unless Carlos wrote _hookerface_ on the back of his undershirt in permanent marker again, Kendall’s kind of at a loss here. He leans in close to the dude he’s been talking to and asks, “Hey, uh, is there something on my face?”  
  
He bites back the urge to add _no homo_ , because his mom is always telling him it’s not a polite thing to say.  
  
The guy’s eyes crinkle at the edges. He smiles, which is nice because Kendall likes making people happy, but he’s not exactly sure what he’s done here to prompt a smile. Shit. He’s probably got falafel in his teeth.  
  
Kendall’s about to bounce out to the restroom to see, because while appearance isn’t high on his priority checklist, he doesn’t want his picture to end up on Perez tomorrow accompanied by jokes about tooth rot or rabbit food.  
  
Only then something bizarre happens. There, in the busy bar, amidst the Southwestern graphics and the sawdust, hockey dude tries to kiss him.  
  
Kendall is off his seat in five seconds flat, stumbling back and away and over his own feet just to get some distance. “Whoa, whoa _. Dude_.”  
  
There’s this quaver in his voice that is totally an unfortunate side effect of the alcohol and hockey-guy is more than a little crestfallen. Which. Kendall doesn’t like it at all when other people are disappointed in him, even perfect strangers. He’s so used to being the big damn hero that if he was on better terms with sobriety, he’d totally be able to talk away the rather unflattering downturn to his bar buddy’s lips.  
  
Tragically, Kendall isn’t anything like sober. He takes a whole heartbeat to assess the situation before deciding that he isn’t even close to equipped to deal with it. He grabs for his fruity alcoholic banana smoothie, mumbles something that hopefully doesn’t sound too much like a blow off, and then high tails it the fuck out of there.  
  
James is the first safe harbor he finds, smack in the middle of a group of girls.  
  
He appears to be discussing hair products.  
  
Only James.  
  
Kendall shakes his head, sinks his fingernails into James’s shoulder, and hisses, “Some guy just tried to _kiss me_.”  
  
James’s lips press together, the corners curving into a smirk. He murmurs, “You don’t say.”  
  
“Uh huh, I do, I just said,” Kendall insists, taking the smirk for disbelief, which, whatever, he’s a hotass. Just because James doesn’t think so doesn’t mean a reasonably attractive man at a bar can’t find him good-looking and want to give him mouth to mouth, alright?  
  
The girls give each other _looks_ that Kendall can’t decipher. They tell James that it was _nice to meet him_ , and they don’t even lean in for a hug or a kiss or a casual grope like most girls do when they’re around James, unable to keep their hands to themselves. Kendall doesn’t think much of it, just waits for James to handle his meltdown before it turns nuclear. But all James does is turn to face him, wrapping his arms around Kendall’s shoulders and leaning in close.  
  
“James,” Kendall starts to say. He’s fully prepared to ward off whatever mockery is about to come at him.  
  
James just rumbles with good humored laughter. Soft, against his ear, James says, “If you didn’t want him to kiss you, maybe you shouldn’t have flirted with him.”  
  
Kendall flinches. “I wasn’t flirting.”  
  
Kendall knows this for sure, because, well. He’s not really super great at flirting. James has informed him of just that on repeated occasions. But now, James cocks an eyebrow; Kendall can feel the movement against his cheek. Their bodies sway, rocking instinctively to the beat of the music, and James tries on his sardonic voice for size. He replies, “Yeah, you were.”  
  
“We were talking about hockey! And I didn’t know he was- you know.”  
  
“You know?” James huffs a laugh, shying back so that Kendall can see the slope of his eyelashes and the gold flecks in his irises. They glow, backlit by the neon coyote on the wall behind him. Kendall thinks it’s kind of pretty.  
  
He mostly blames it on his drink. James doesn’t get to be pretty when he’s wearing his smug face, paired with a little incredulity. But mostly the smug face. “Dude. This is a gay bar. Everyone is _you know_.”  
  
Kendall’s mouth drops open. “It is not.”  
  
Except. Okay. Maybe he didn’t notice before, but over James’s shoulder he can see the dance floor, where Carlos is making the rounds, jerking his hips and flailing his arms and generally being pretty adorkable. What Kendall didn’t exactly notice before is that all the girls are actually dancing with each other. It’s Hollywood, so that happens a lot in clubs; pretty clusters of ladies who are too hot to handle crushed up against each other, silky skin and hard candy lips and total sexual overload. Thing is, the guys are also dancing up on each other, and not in that socially awkward too-lame-to-have-game way that some groups of dudes have. This is more intimate, more visceral, and- Kendall swallows- those two dudes in the corner there are definitely making out.  
  
He possibly watches that longer than is strictly necessary. They’re really into it.  
  
When he comes back to reality, dazed, he thinks, _damn_. How did he miss this before?  
  
James is laughing at him again, and that’s not cool. Kendall hates being laughed at, and he hates it most when James is the one doing the laughing. It always feels like he’s losing a battle he wasn’t aware they were fighting. Kendall crosses his bare arms defensively and glances around, suddenly aware of all the eyes trained directly on him.  
  
It’s not like Kendall thinks that if a dude’s gay, they’re automatically going to like him, but, uh. These dudes seem to really, _really_ like him.  
  
Kendall tries to ignore it. “Still. I wasn’t flirting. How was I flirting?”  
  
“Gee, let me think.” And then James does the most grossly inaccurate imitation of Kendall that Kendall has ever seen, getting all up in his personal space and smiling really, freakishly wide and unbuttoning his shirt and-  
  
“I was hot,” Kendall protests. “And I didn’t get that close to him.”  
  
The eye roll James gives him is well past mockery and heading right on in to exasperation. “You were pretty close. And you _squeezed his muscles_.”  
  
Kendall vaguely recalls doing that in the midst of his alcohol induced haze, but. “I was telling him that he was built like a good defenseman.”  
  
James snorts. “I was good on defense.”  
  
Wow. So not the point.  
  
Kendall rises to the challenge anyway. “You were crap on defense, asshole. You kept getting bored.”  
  
“Mm.” James shrugs, the simple movement refined, controlled. He is a virtual powerhouse of masculinity and total eye-candy to boot. Why isn’t anyone hitting on _him_? “It’s more fun to hit stuff.”  
  
That Kendall can agree with. His fingers are clenched into fists. He’s embarrassed, and Kendall isn’t exactly happy with the way that sensation is conflicting with his buzz. He can’t shake the idea that everyone is staring, now. Even the ghastly neon cactus on the opposite wall is judging him. With its prickly green cactus lights.  
  
Don’t even get him started on the coyote.  
  
Kendall isn’t above a good tantrum, but he’s aware that he’s kind of in the wrong here what with his total lack of observational prowess. He was actually really fucking rude to that dude, who, yeah, was maybe hitting on Kendall the whole time he thought they were having an inspirational dialogue about the greatest game on earth, but it’s not like he was a total sleazebag about it or anything. Kendall’s mom raised him to have a really obnoxious conscience. An apology may be warranted. Kendall takes a sip of his Bananalama Ding Dong or whatever it’s called, savoring the banana taste. He is steeling himself for some serious groveling here.  
  
James just keeps on laughing, eyeing his drink. This cannot stand. Kendall decides he’s going to put hair dye in James’s fancy shampoo bottles when he gets home. Blond, maybe.  
  
No, _pink_!  
  
Kendall scowls, trying not to give away his master plan. He lets his face get into it, eyebrows and cheekbones and contorted mouth and all. “I’m going to go somewhere and ignore you now.”  
  
Ignoring James is always a great plan. _Almost_ always. Kendall barely makes it to the bar before he notices two things. First, the guy he was apparently flirting with is long gone. Bummer. Second, there is a well-muscled dude who kind of looks a lot like James, blocking his way.  
  
“Can I buy you a drink?”  
  
Kendall blanches. “Um. I have a drink.”  
  
He raises his fruity banana concoction, like _see_? Evidence. That’s important. Probably.  
  
“I can buy you another,” the guy says smoothly. “That’ll be gone in no time.”  
  
Kendall is trying to remind himself that he is not the most desirable piece of ass in this bar. This guy is probably just being uber-friendly. That’s what people do in bars. They’re _friendly_.  
  
“Thanks, but I can get my own.”  
  
Over the dude’s shoulder, Kendall can see James is still laughing at him. Kendall decides that pushing him off stage into a horde of fangirls at their next concert will be timelier and more cost-effective than pink hair dye.  
  
“I don’t mean to be pushy,” the guys ventures, and he’s got this open, friendly smile that reminds Kendall a lot of Logan, if Logan ever felt like hitting on him. He is a Logan-James hybrid, of sorts.  
  
It occurs to Kendall he shouldn’t compare moderately attractive guys to his besties. Because that kind of means he finds James and Logan moderately attractive, which he so does _not_. James can take a long walk off a short bridge, and Logan’s a nerd.  
  
They do both smell really good, though. James has really nice biceps. And Logan’s pocket protector is cute, in a dorky, never-getting-laid sort of way. Kendall bites his bottom lip, allowing himself to wonder what it would be like if James or Logan were the ones with their teeth on his mouth- _wait_.  
  
He may or may not be experiencing a psychotic break. Do bananalama-llama-things ‘cause lucid fantasies? Kendall stares at his drink, searching for evidence of its insidious hallucinogenic delusion-making contents. The guy, completely oblivious to Kendall’s existential crisis, ploughs on, “You’re really cute, and you look lost. Like you could use a friend.”  
  
Yeah. Well. Kendall’s friends are currently occupied, getting drunk or _laughing at him_. The idea makes him grumpy. Also, he’s starting to think this guy is totally going beyond the border of _friendly_ , because Kendall is not _cute_. Border collies are cute. Kendall has neither fluffy ears nor a fluffy tail, and he doesn’t like to roll in road kill, either. He snaps, “Look, man, I’m not gay.”  
  
The dude shrugs, completely undeterred. “I’m not trying to hook up with you.”  
  
Oh. Well. There he goes misreading situations again. He sips his drink, which doesn’t seem to be laced with narcotics, sucking a chunk of banana up from the bottom. It really is almost gone. Kendall makes a sad, sad face at it, mumbling, “You’re not?”  
  
After a long pause the guy says, “Okay, I am, but can you really blame a guy for trying?”  
  
He smiles again, so much like Logan that Kendall can’t help smiling back. He feels bad for being so snappish. Truth be told, weird alcohol induced fantasies aside, he’s a little freaked out by the whole idea of another guy touching him.  
  
What? He’s from a small town in Minnesota. He’s adjusting to all this _Hollywood_ in baby steps.  
  
“Sorry.”  
  
“No problem. I’ll still buy you that drink if you want. No butt sex required.”  
  
That actually makes Kendall laugh. He’s not so covertly been thinking everyone around him would like to peg him from behind since the second James informed him what kind of establishment they’re in. Which is dumb. Guys who like guys are still guys. Or something.  
  
Kendall’s about to say _okay_ , because the dude’s nice, and hey, it doesn’t hurt to make more friends. That’s when a warm, solid wall, like, bumps into Kendall from behind. Strong arms wrap around his shoulders. Kendall leans into it, almost unconsciously, because the wall is also known as James. Kendall can tell by the overwhelming scent of manspray and that fancy pants soon-to-be-pink-hair-dye shampoo. He accepts the hug because James has been his best friend since forever and a day ago. Even in the midst of all the hardcore mocking, he makes Kendall comfortable. There’s no changing that. In the midst of the warm cocoon of James’s arms, Kendall takes another sip of his drink, waiting for James to deliver whatever derisive comments he’s got planned.  
  
“Hey, you,” James says coolly, giving the nice new guy his best offensive forward glare, perfected during the course of hundreds of hockey games. “Not that we’re not flattered, but stop trying to shanghai my boyfriend.”  
  
Kendall chokes on a chunk of banana. That was neither derisive nor even remotely funny.  
  
He gags, trying to dislodge fruit from his throat. “What are you doing?”  
  
James nuzzles his neck and instructs, “Play along.”  
  
Kendall squirms, trying to wiggle from James’s grip, but all he gets is that prissy bitch sigh he recognizes from grade school and arms tightening around his shoulders.  
  
“I thought you said you weren’t gay,” the guy says, and now he sounds _hurt_. Kendall’s heart sinks. They probably will not end up being Hollywood pen pals.  
  
“He said that?” James stares down at Kendall with such mirth dancing in his eyes that Kendall knows he’s not going to like the next words out of his mouth. “He’s such a little liar. My boy is a total cockslut.”  
  
James kisses the crown of Kendall’s head, all happy, open affection. Kendall does not try to stop him because mostly he is trying to figure out if he can remember the English language. It is a jumble of bad words and violent impulses up in his brain right now.  
  
The guy tells Kendall, “If you were taken, you could have just said so.”  
  
Then he storms off. Kendall is less than pleased. “Thanks a lot, James.”  
  
“I was saving you,” James replies, not very sorry about it at all.  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Because you’re plastered. You need someone to protect you from all of the big, strong men.”  
  
Kendall will admit that his banana-yummy drink of fruitliciousness is hitting him a little hard. This may be because it’s his third one.  
  
…And then there were like, ten tequila shots before it.  
  
But still. Kendall rolls his eyes. He’s not that bad. He’s had worse in James’s basement back home, Hendrix’s guitar riffs floating over their head and the ceiling spinning with entire galaxies.  
  
“You think you’re so much cooler than me, just because you’re soberish and all worldly and knew this was a gay bar and stuff. I can be worldly.”  
  
James tucks a strand of Kendall’s hair behind his ear, his expression fond. He ruins it by saying, “No, I think I’m cooler than you because I _am_ cooler than you.”  
  
Kendall is going to lay into him. He totally is. James has still got Kendall caught in his arms like a disgruntled alley cat, and he’s wearing his smug again. “You- you- I-“  
  
“Hey, guys, have you seen-“ The Rocque records employee who has stumbled up to them pauses. He gives them this analytic once over and comes to a conclusion that Kendall can’t even begin to fathom. “Aw, shit, you’re cute together. He looks like a handful, though.”  
  
Now Kendall is a squirmy toddler instead of a man. At least it’s a promotion from border collie.  
  
“He is,” James agrees with a wink, hands folded over Kendall’s collarbone. “But it’s worth it.”  
  
The sound tech gives them a bemused, drunk smile, and then apparently catches sight of whoever he’s scouting for. He wanders off the same way he came, with sloppy footfalls and slumped posture.  
  
“I hate you,” Kendall informs James, just so they’re clear.  
  
James bites his ear in retaliation.  
  
Kendall may or may not make a noise that is the wrong side of turned on, but he can’t help it. His ears are an erogenous zone. He shoves his way from James’s arms, but then the floor sways. _Fuck_. He really is not completely sober.  
  
That doesn’t mean he can’t take care of himself, though.  
  
Kendall glances around to find their friends are still going strong, caught up in the party. Logan is downing a car bomb. Carlos is teaching some dance moves to a pair of skinny boys. A couple of dudes Kendall doesn’t know near the bar have their tongues shoved down each other’s throat.  
  
It makes Kendall cagey, tight skin and morbid curiosity. What would the scrape of stubble be like against his face?  
  
Kendall carefully hands his devil-drink to James. At the very least, he’s not exactly in his element here. It can’t hurt to let James take the reins for a while, right?  
  
He benevolently decides, “You may be my gallant protector.”  
  
“Gallant, hmm?”  
  
“Only because I am slightly scared of the gay.” Kendall is loath to admit it, but it’s apparently true. Watching the two boys near the bar getting all hot and heavy is making his pulse thread erratically in his veins, jackrabbit fast, and if that isn’t fear, he doesn’t know what is.  
  
“So I pretend to be your boy toy for the rest of the night, and you…”  
  
“I…?”  
  
“What do I get in return?” James enunciates. Between the dance floor lights and the neon glow of the far wall, James consists of shadows and color. He is rugged, proud. Like a real life cowboy.  
  
“I don’t follow.”  
  
James says, “Come on. If I’m your fake boyfriend, I should get something out of it.”  
  
Kendall winces because James keeps saying the boyfriend word. They are so not boyfriends, fake or otherwise. They are friends. Who are boys. Friendboys. “What happened to fraternal loyalty?”  
  
“I’m totally loyal,” James scoffs. “I’m letting you cockblock me for the rest of the night, dude. Obviously I deserve something out of this deal.” He pauses, smile turning Cheshire Cat sly. “Sex?”  
  
“ _James_!” Kendall is scandalized.  
  
“You act like you’ve never had any.”  
  
Well. It’s been a while. Not the point. He deftly changes the subject. “Why hasn’t anyone been hitting on you?”  
  
“Probably because I’m giving off vibes.”  
  
James doesn’t look bothered by the fact that he isn’t being treated like the prettiest person in the world, which really should be Kendall’s first clue that something’s off.  
  
“What kind of vibes?”  
  
James smirks. “Good boyfriend vibes.”  
  
“That’s not even a thing.”  
  
In response, James reaches across the distance between them. He palms his hand against Kendall’s heart, which kicks up, fast as stallions at a racetrack. James’s fingers are long, warm, pinpricks of heat against Kendall’s skin. He stares up at Kendall from beneath his eyelashes, bedroom-coy and dead serious. His voice is low and husky as he states, “Sure it is. When I look at you, I can’t see anyone else. I can’t think about anyone else. You’re my entire universe…People pick up on that.”  
  
Kendall sucks in a breath, sharp. His head is swimming with stars. “What?”  
  
“Because people are stupid, and I’m an excellent actor.” James retracts his hand, eyes sparkling. _Douchebag_. For a second there, he almost sold Kendall on the idea of…what, exactly? “Back to the subject at hand here, you owe me big time.”  
  
“He owes you what big time?” Carlos asks, draping his sweaty body across James, eyes as big and wide as a baby ocelot. “What are you guys up to?”  
  
“We’re in love now,” James explains, patting one of Carlos’s hands.  
  
“We are not!” Kendall’s mouth gapes open.  
  
Carlos snorts. “Sure. If you don’t want to tell me, fine. I need a drink of water.”  
  
He dances toward the bar, butt shimmying.  
  
Kendall has the presence of mind to punch James’s shoulder. “You’re enjoying this.”  
  
“What, a chance to be _your_ knight in shining armor for once? Yeah.” James does that obnoxious boneless shrug thing of his. “What’s not to enjoy?”  
  
“This is humiliating for me.”  
  
“I’m your best friend. I love seeing your squirm.” James clicks his tongue. “At least dance with me. If you’re going to scare all my potential fucks away, you owe me that.”  
  
So they do. They dance. And dance. And dance. On the floor, James’s hair glows auburn, russet brown and gold-red and wheat blond like the gradating shades of a red clay canyon, streaked through with the dusky blue-black of the night sky. He’s amazing. Better than amazing. He moves his hips like he was born to do it.  
  
Kendall’s not bad either; this is a big part of his livelihood. The music makes heat course through his veins, fire that can’t be ameliorated, no matter how many glasses of water he goes and orders from the wary-eyed bartender. He throws down with Carlos, and a group of girls- who apparently like other girls, _hot_ \- and then he’s back to James again. The closer Kendall dances to him, the worse it gets. Everywhere their bodies touch, Kendall is shot through with that quicksilver heat. It pierces his skin as easily as arrowheads.  
  
It’s got to be the alcohol. Kendall is doing a really great job of ignoring it until James opens his dumb mouth.  
  
“You know,” James pants, sagging against him. His head rests on Kendall’s shoulder, his hands hovering over Kendall’s waist. “If you really want to sell this, we should kiss. At least once.”  
  
“No.” Kendall is not actually as trashed as he thought, because he can count fifteen different ways in which that is a bad idea.  
  
“C’mon, _baby_ ,” James wheedles, his voice soft and deep and a little bit rough. When he lifts his head, his eyes dance between humor and something more visceral. “I’ll be real good to you.”  
  
Kendall is not impressed. “See, this is why I’m always surprised when girls agree to sleep with you, cheeseball. I can’t fake it, not that far.”  
  
James’s hands force his hips to keep swaying, a back-forth mindless rhythm that would be easy to maintain even without James guiding him through it. “Hey, it’s not faking it. We are getting fabulous for a cause, alright?”  
  
“What cause?” Kendall sulks. He refuses to meet James’s gaze. It’s weirdly hypnotic. Right now his hazel eyes are gold as the moon during an Indian Summer.  
  
“The protection of your virtue.” At Kendall’s glare, James corrects, “Fine, your chastity…I hooked up with a dancer named Chastity once.  
  
“Do you really think these guys aren’t going to let up if we’re not together?”  
  
James actually has the nerve to guffaw, this freaking crazy loud sound that is more like a donkey snort than an actual chuckle. He says, “ _Yeah_ , so when I said I was protecting you from all the big, strong men, I meant I was protecting them from you.”  
  
“Excuse me?”  
  
“You get handsy when you’re drunk.”  
  
“I do not!” Kendall protests. James frowns pointedly at the space between their bodies, or lack thereof, and the place where Kendall’s hands are bunched in his shirt. Kendall pouts. “That’s different.”  
  
“Is it?” James’s expression changes with the song. It’s got a fast tempo. It makes Kendall grind against James, hot with the sound. His skin has prickly cactus needles beneath it, forcing him outwards, forwards, into James’s heat.  
  
James gasps, “It’s not bad, you know.”  
  
“What’s not?” Kendall asks, a little breathless.  
  
“Doing it. With a guy.”  
  
Kendall is confused. Because more than once, he’s walked in on James in the limo, fingers curled around the underside of some aspiring model’s stilettos while his tongue curls inside of her. James has never given any indication at all that cock is a thing he’s interested in. “Since when would you know?”  
  
“I’ve got all kinds of secrets. Are we going to kiss now, or…?” James tapers off, smile crooked. The way he’s watching Kendall is a sandstorm building, abrasive against Kendall’s insides. He is trapped.  
  
Kendall considers all the reasons he has to say no. His drink has probably been roofied, and he is going to regret this a million-fold in the morning. But.  
  
Opportunities like this come once in a lifetime.  
  
“Yeah. Okay. Yes. I mean. Um. Sure.” He’s usually more articulate than this. Kendall shuts his mouth. James is leaning in closer and closer and closer, and Kendall finds that speech is really unnecessary anyway.  
  
He’s actually going through with this. He’s about to voluntarily lean in to taste James’s tongue.  
  
A gasp brings him back to sanity.  
  
It’s a really loud, really blatantly offended gasp.  
  
“What the hell are you doing?” Logan demands, hands on his hips. Most of his glare is focused on James, which is great, because Kendall’s still working through this whole thinking thing.  
  
Casually, James replies, “Kendall and I are in love now.”  
  
“Stop telling people that!” Kendall protests.  
  
James smiles, completely unbothered by Kendall’s mortification. “It’s not my fault you look like such a twink, dude.”  
  
“You can’t just, make out with Kendall, James.” Logan explains patiently in his teacher voice. It’s almost like they’ve had this conversation before.  
  
“Uh, I’m pretty sure he just said I could.” Logan glowers. James sighs. “I’m helping break Kendall of his internalized homophobia.”  
  
Logan’s evidently impressed. Those words have a lot of syllables for James. Kendall is too busy balking to care. “I do not have internalized homophobia.”  
  
Unsympathetically, Logan says, “Dude, we’re from Rednecksville, Minnesota. We all have internalized homophobia.”  
  
“I don’t,” James interjects brightly.  
  
Logan wrinkles his nose, his dimples standing out starkly. “You’re from an alien planet where unicorns frolic in rainbow pastures and all the other woodland critters have pronounced you king.”  
  
“My next royal decree will be to stick you in the royal dungeons.”  
  
Nonplussed, Logan tells Kendall, “Why are you putting up with him?”  
  
“Entertainment?” Kendall tries.  
  
Logan’s eyes flutter close. He appears to be muttering something about patience and serenity. Out loud, he says, “I need another drink. You coming?”  
  
“I’m dancing,” James objects. His fingers are digging bruises into Kendall’s arm.  
  
“I’m coming,” Kendall volunteers, because sobriety is crawling back on its hands and knees, chasing away Kendall’s buzz with its miserable face. Screw that. Drugged drink or not, Kendall craves the hazy, untroubled mindframe of seconds yore, where he thought that kissing James was an okay thing to do.  
  
Because he did think that. He thought about kissing James. Worse, he was actually going to do it.  
  
Kendall begins to panic. He downs another bananalama whatever at the bar, finishing off the chilly smooth drink in seconds because he desperately needs to be drunk. For reasons.  
  
“Don’t give into James’s insanity,” Logan advises. “I need you to stay sane.”  
  
Too late. Kendall can only take so much of Logan’s negatory face, so after a rousing discussion of something really boring, he leaves him in the capable hands of the studio rats. He’s got this vague idea about making his way back to James.  
  
Who is dancing like he doesn’t even know that Kendall left. He’s got a girl on one arm, a guy on another, both locked in tight and close. It’s like watching one of those pompous liquor ads where some debonair guy owns the entire club with his smolder, come to life.  
  
James does a really good smolder.  
  
Most of the time, Kendall can ignore it. He always makes the mistake of thinking he’s been inoculated against James’s ridiculous beauty. Sometimes, like now, it hits him in flashes, a virus that never left his system. He licks his lips, wondering if he can still taste James’s breath under his tongue. Secretly, this small part of him has always been irrevocably curious about what it would be like to kiss James, in a non-gay way.  
  
Maybe it is kind of gay. Whatever. Kendall just wants to know what all the fuss is about. He was so close. Now he can’t stop thinking about it. He watches James dance with his tiny entourage, hedonistic, completely free. At one point he actually glances up, eyes reflecting back the silver white dance floor lights like a desert fox, all pupil and no recognition. Right then, Kendall thinks he sees the one guy’s hands on the front of James’s jeans.  
  
A dark, ugly thing rears up in his throat, sickly and slimy and tasting vaguely of banana. Kendall swallows, but that doesn’t help. It rattles around his stomach, a snake whipping its tail back and forth.  
  
He can’t _do_ anything, can’t storm over like the jealous fake boyfriend he is, so he dances. He lets the music take him the way it always does, thrilling across his skin. That helps, a little. Kendall likes music best when it’s like this, loud and impossible to drown out. The bass jumps under his ribcage, rattles down his spine. It’s a pulse in his bloodstream. It turns his body to neon light.  
  
Three songs in, this dude dances up behind Kendall, his hands rough on his sides, his wiry chest hard against his back. Kendall’s too lazy to shove him away, too hot for the push of another body against his. His second fruity cocktail has got him buzzed again, and James is right. Drinking makes him horny. He rocks against the man behind him, catching glimpses of him at odd angles. He is handsome. A stranger. The resonant fear Kendall experienced earlier in the night is still there, still a thick taste in his mouth, but he’s gone enough that he can allow that there’s something else underneath; a dangerous kind of intrigue.  
  
There are fingers against his jaw line, turning him towards a mouth, dark, plump, willing. Self-control has never exactly been Kendall’s forte, and he wonders where the harm would be in giving in. He’s already almost-kissed James, already come _this close_ to feeling his best friend all the way down to his toes.  
  
It probably would have been incredible.  
  
Kendall thinks that he just wants to recapture that what-if. He doesn’t want to miss out on another opportunity. So he doesn’t fight the crash course of the guy’s lips.  
  
Someone else does.  
  
“The fuck are you doing?” James demands, voice loud, almost a yell.  
  
Kendall jerks back. The new guy, the stranger, holds his hands straight in the air like James is pointing a gun at his face. He’s not, but he is pissed, red creeping across his flesh, a vein bulging unattractively in his neck.  
  
“Hey, man, I didn’t know,” the guy stammers, not even close to brave.  
  
James’s eyes narrow, desert high beams trained straight on Kendall. It makes a cold sweat break out on the back of Kendall’s neck. James growls, “Now you do.”  
  
The guy scampers into the crowd, never to be seen again. For the third time in one night, Kendall has scared a suitor off, at least by proxy.  
  
“What was that?”  
  
James doesn’t answer. Not with words. What James does is wrap his fingers under Kendall’s chin and kiss him soft and filthy, tongue sliding, hands slipping beneath the hem of Kendall’s shirt.  
  
It doesn’t last more than a minute, but it is deep and wet and when they break apart, they are panting. James says, “You taste like bananas.”  
  
Kendall’s flustered. In and of itself, that’s not an entirely new feeling. He’s got sunburn in his bones, the conflicting urge to assert his dominance grappling with his immense terror. Fight or flee, stand tall or lay low?  
  
All in all, he goes through this a lot. With girls. Not boys. And never his best friends, unless he’s arguing with them, and then it’s a different kind of flustered altogether. But now James is looking at him like he’s an oasis in the midst of the Sahara, and Kendall is combating the need to run screaming for the hills or do something really stupid, like prove he’s worth it.  
  
“You didn’t answer my question.”  
  
“Nope. You look like you could use another drink,” James announces, poking at the corner of Kendall’s mouth. Where his tongue was, like, seconds ago.  
  
“That’s the last thing I need,” Kendall retorts, mid-hysteria.  
  
“Aren’t you having fun?” James asks, bewildered, like Kendall just told him that the president outlawed bandanas. His lower lip actually trembles.  
  
Kendall notices that James isn’t exactly perfectly steady on his feet. He’s been drinking too, apparently.  
  
Some gallant protector.  
  
Against his better judgment, Kendall says, “Don’t be dumb. Of course I’m having fun.”  
  
James beams, brighter than all the lights in the bar. He could outshine the sun with that smile. “Good. Because I am an amazing date.”  
  
James presses the heel of his hand into Kendall’s hipbone, thumb gliding across skin. It makes Kendall’s dick twitch with interest. The heat of James’s palm feels like a firebrand through his jeans, marking him permanently.  
  
Kendall doesn’t know if he wants to arch into it or flinch away, so he just stays there, caught, faltering. He lets James kiss him again, harder, rougher. James’s lips are hot, just the right amount of soft and firm, and his tongue coaxes noises from Kendall’s mouth that he didn’t even know he could make. He tastes exactly like the cool, clear water wending its way through the bottom of a canyon. Kendall drinks him in, thirsty.  
  
Yeah, alright. He’s enough of a man to admit he really isn’t minding this making out stuff. Like, at all. James happens to be really, really good at it. Good enough that Kendall finally gets why girls are constantly stalking him, camping behind palm trees back at the hotel or lurking in the lobby or that one time breaking into apartment 2J. He’s every bit as magnificent as advertised. Kendall is actually put out when James wrenches away from him and murmurs, “It could get more fun.”  
  
They’re pressed together, tight, limb to limb, and as a result Kendall is struggling with cognitive processing. “What do you mean?”  
  
“I mean what do I have to do to get into your pants?”  
  
Sparks crackle to life inside Kendall’s chest, burning bright before sinking low, low, guiding all of his blood straight to his dick. James’s smile widens. He can feel it against his thigh. Ass.  
  
“You’re kidding.”  
  
“I’m not. Come on,” James insists. “We’ll be amazing together. You know we will.”  
  
He nips at Kendall’s ear, sucking the lobe between his lips for a few hot seconds, his tongue flicking against the curve of it. Kendall hates how sensitive his ears are, how he feels the wet heat radiating all the way day down his spine.  
  
He doesn’t do this. He’s not the guy who goes out to clubs and plays chicken with his heart, night after night.  But James is just so- so- _persuasive_ , damnit. It isn’t even close to fair. “We couldn’t even- I mean we don’t have-“  
  
James fumbles around with the front of his jeans for a beat, hand bumping against Kendall’s erection and making everything that much worse before he prizes out a tiny square of foil. Figures. He carries his intentions around in his pockets, right there with his apartment keys and a few sticks of gum. James leans back in, pressing his mouth to Kendall’s jaw the way that guy before wanted to. He licks against Kendall’s pulse point. “Do you want to-“  
  
Indecisiveness is weird, not at all something Kendall’s used to. He is the normally the captain of bad snap decisions. But this is different. This is James. He’s got to _think_.  
  
He can’t think. Not with James touching him like that.  
  
“Yeah, fuck, come on.”  
  
The bathroom is coed, is the first thing Kendall notices. A group of pretty girls with jewel toned eye shadow and sparkles in their hair nearly trample him and James on their way back up the stairs. The second thing he sees, James’s hand tight in his, is that the doors go from the floor to the ceiling, full coverage, like they expect people to get busy in the stalls. Inside, the lighting is all blue, like the blue corn moon or whatever, and Kendall maybe starts singing Colors of the Wind in a low voice.  
  
He sings when he’s nervous, okay?  
  
“Seriously?” James asks, laughing under his breath. He pushes his mouth against Kendall’s, lazy, slow, their lips damp and sticking. There is an inherent sweetness here, a familiarity that Kendall doesn’t associate with getting busy in a bathroom stall. It’s as if they’ve created their own little world here, beneath the electric moonglow, a sacred space where time stands still.  
  
Gentle kisses turn to hard kisses, and it turns out that James doesn’t only carry condoms in his pockets. He’s got lube too. This makes perfect sense to Kendall, because James is a manwhore. He says so, too, growls, “You’re such a slut,” with this fragmented thing in his chest that resembles possessiveness and jealousy. His ribs close, talons around his heart.  
  
James laughs, says, “You’ll thank me for it later,” but Kendall is busy resenting all the imaginary people who might have taken his place.  
  
He hates when he gets like this, hates the territorialism that gets his hackles all raised, and he hateshateshates that it’s directed towards James, who has about as firm of a grasp on monogamy as Carlos does on quantum physics. They haven’t even done anything yet, but it’s sinking in that this is a really, really bad idea. Kendall can already see how it will play out. He will be all hung up on his best friend, while James will keep on keeping on, shucking his jeans for anyone who asks.  
  
“What’s wrong?” James asks, because Kendall has gone as stiff and rigid, his body turned to ammonite. James mouth against his neck, gentle, wet.  
  
“I-“ Kendall begins, but his voice gets caught in his throat. James is licking into the hollow center of his collarbone, tongue tracing the protrusion of bone, teeth nipping at skin. He can feel it in his toes, raising goosebumps across the back of his calves on up.  
  
“Please don’t change your mind.” His voice cracks, desperation seeping in the edges. Like it’s important.  
  
“I won’t,” Kendall promises. He’s all in, now.  
  
James still ends up taking the initiative. He gets Kendall’s jeans open and holds him in his palm, gaze glued to the shaft of his cock where it emerges from his boxers. James stands there, licking his lips, almost nervous. Kendall has to look down, trying to figure out what the holdup is. Like, he’s pretty impressed by his dick most of the time, but in his intoxicated haze it mostly looks red and lonely and like it would like very much to be touched some more. He pushes forward, skin catching on the soft pads of James’s fingertips.  
  
His hand is just so big, so much bigger than all the girls that Kendall has fooled around with before. It feels weird, good weird, but it would be even better if he’d just-  
  
“Move,” Kendall whines.  
  
James does, but not the way that Kendall wants. He drops to his knees, uncaring that the bathroom floor is wet or that his jeans are getting all grody from unidentified nastiness. “Turn around.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Just do it.” Kendall is reluctant. He doesn’t want his back to the door. His shadowy reflection in the smoky glass is pale, gray, tiny. James by contrast is a dark presence, imposing. James begs, “Please?”  
  
Kendall turns around, bracing his hands against the wall.  
  
James cups the front of Kendall’s thighs, smoothing down to his knees and then back up again. He tugs Kendall's jeans and boxers down around his thighs. There are sounds, the squelch of the tiny bottle and the ragged edge of James’s breathing and the squeak of Kendall’s sneakers on bathroom tile. The quiet is worse. When James’s forefinger pushes up against Kendall’s asshole, wet with lube, Kendall jumps. James has to make this soothing sound, like Kendall is a wild animal.  
  
“Stop it, I’m fine,” Kendall grits out. The crescent of James’s nail is cutting into muscle. It feels like a bad idea.  
  
“You sure, buddy?”  
  
“Peachy keen and dandy.”  
  
The sarcasm makes James grin. Kendall can hear it, can feel it when James nips the skin of his ass affectionately. He probes at Kendall’s entrance, pushing in and then pulling out, tracing tiny circles around the rim. The sensation is totally foreign, not something Kendall’s ever gone in for or even considered, but it’s not horrible. He trusts James, implicitly, and he doesn’t believe even for a second that James would ever make him do anything really awful. So Kendall stays still, muscles rigid, waiting, trying to suss out if he minds the direction this is going. He begins leaning towards yes when James calls him a tightass and replaces the soft trace of his fingertips with his mouth. He licks Kendall loose, dipping his tongue in slow one moment, thrusting it deep the next.  
  
Kendall’s wet and hot all over, lightning radiating out to his limbs every time James licks in. His dick is a heavy weight against his thighs, and no matter how many times he tries to lecture his brain into remembering that this is James on his knees, it doesn’t work. It’s because it’s James that he’s so turned on. He’s got a million, billion memories of his best friend that are being shaded in a completely different light, James standing tall in his hockey gear or singing on stage or screaming at Kendall for some idiotic thing. James with his hands up a girl’s skirt or delivering the lines for a school play or standing next to Kendall’s locker back home with a big smile on his face. The truth is, Kendall _has_ thought of James this way, once or twice or three times before, when they were younger, and his dick reacted to the lightest touch. But. It was too hard.  
  
James can look at a person and make them feel like they are the center of the universe. And then he turns his attention elsewhere, and it hurts. It’s easier to handle when they’re just friends. Except what James is doing to him now isn’t anything like friendly.  
  
He kneads Kendall’s ass and spreads the cheeks a little wider to watch the flushed red yawn of his hole, sucking James’s tongue inside. He slips a finger in straight up to the knuckle, right next to his tongue, and Kendall keens, the sound loud in the bathroom stall. He didn’t know it would be this good, is the thing. And also, it’s been a really, really long time since anyone’s paid him any attention. So, yeah.  
  
It’s humiliating when he comes, striping the tilled wall without even being touched. Kendall didn’t even know that could happen. His cheeks blaze red.  
  
“I, uh.”  
  
“Don’t talk,” James commands, rising to his feet, legs wobbly beneath him. “Don’t move.”  
  
Kendall ignores the order, tries to catch a glimpse of James’s face, but all he can see is patchwork; the strange honey glow of his skin in the blue light, the knit between his eyebrows, the way his mouth glistens like a quartz crystal formation.  
  
James yanks open the front of his jeans, the motion smooth, but rushed. Kendall wants to ask him to take off his shirt, but it’s his lucky white v-neck and there’s nowhere to put it. He’ll definitely have a story to tell here; the night he got fucked by James Diamond in the bathroom stall of a gay bar, fully clothed.  
  
James mouths over the arch of Kendall’s neck. Reverent, he breathes, “That was really- hot.”  
  
His breath makes Kendall’s hair stand on end, electricity building in the air. There is the snap of latex, the click of the tube being reopened. Kendall listens to the sound of James fisting over himself, one two rhythm that sounds close to painful before it stops. He drags the head of his dick across the cleft of Kendall’s ass, wetting his skin with lube.   
  
“This’ll hurt,” James warns softly, sucking on Kendall’s earlobe. Kendall knows, or thinks he knows; there is a half-forgotten story in the back of his head. But pain’s never stopped him from doing anything before. He suffered broken bones and bruised ribs and black eyes in the pursuit of less, and his balls are fucking aching with how much this needs to happen.  
  
He exhales, shaky, and says, “Are you going to do this or aren’t you?”  
  
Half of his caustic edge is lost in the tremor in his voice. James braces his hands against Kendall’s hips, the head of his dick nudging up against Kendall’s entrance. The latex is cold, but beneath it there is James’s fever hot skin and the steady pump of his blood that indicates want, rooted deep inside his bones.  
  
James doesn’t make any effort to spare Kendall by inching in. He drives himself forward in one firm, smooth slide that forces all the air from Kendall’s lungs. His body is tense, hole stretched taut, and James doesn’t lie. It hurts, and it keeps on hurting. Kendall grits his teeth and tries his best to bear it, to take the foreign weight of James shoved up inside of him. He stretches around the length of him, uncomfortable, pinioned, while the abstract painting of his cum dries against the wall, drips fossilizing before his eyes. He focuses on that, breath ragged.  
  
James draws out, slow now. He lets Kendall feel the raw ache of it. Kendall’s shoulders slump, his body relaxing around the space James has vacated, only the head of his dick peeking inside of him. They could stop. James could pull out wholly; write this off as a failed experiment. Kendall maybe could be content with the memory of James kneeling behind him, fucking him open with his tongue. He doesn’t like this, how James is rubbing gravel against his insides, shiny sharp every time he moves. He opens his mouth, uncomfortable, fed up, and full of speeches.  
  
James wraps his arms around Kendall’s waist and says, “Shhh, it’ll get better. Just hold on.”  
  
Kendall’s first thought is _shhh_? He realizes that he is making this hurt sound, like a kid, and clamps his lips together. It’s hard to be soundless, hard not to whine protests into thin air.  
  
His second, more vindictive thought is _what does James know_? Because right now, Kendall kind of feels as if he’s pioneering this act all on his lonesome. It is newnewnew, shiny new and requires so much courage. Then he remembers that James has done this before, and despite himself, Kendall winds his fingers with James’s possessively. James snaps his hips forward.  
  
“You’re-“ his breath comes out frayed, awestruck,  “-tight. God, Kendall.”  
  
Kendall’s reply is a moan. It bursts from his lips, thick, strangled. The solid span of James, invading his body, still twinges with every little shift, from the way he braces his sneakered feet against the floor to the way he pulls his fingers from Kendall’s and splays them across his throat. But momentarily, it hadn’t mattered, because James brushed against something that flooded Kendall’s body with molten light, bliss that made him bite down on his tongue and turned his ankles weak. He wants that again. Immediately.  
  
He arches back in James’s arms, pushing off against the wall, desperately trying to take James deeper. James laughs, close to his ear, his voice broken. “Feel good?”  
  
“Do that again,” Kendall orders, but it sounds more like a plea. James thrusts his hips, jarring Kendall down to his kneecaps. It lances through Kendall, good and bad, bad _good_ , _good_ bad, different angles, different speeds, until James finds the one that makes Kendall whimper for more. He is sensual about it, with careful artistry, checking Kendall’s responses. Kendall’s heart thuds hard, reminding him of its existence, and he needs that.  
  
Sometimes he worries that just like a tumbleweed, there is nothing at the center of him. He is just spine-tipped leaves, detached at the root, falling all over himself to figure out Hollywood and life and if he’s actually going to make it out alive. With James seated inside him, Kendall is alivealivealive. He blazes through Kendall like a falling star, turns him to electric light, switched on by the roam of James’s hands beneath his t-shirt. He thumbs over Kendall’s nipple, fucks forward and murmurs, “Like that?”  
  
His cock catches, pulls at Kendall before sliding back in with a new kind of ease. Kendall’s eyes roll back into his head. He cranes back for a kiss. James tastes sweet as saguaro syrup. He rides back on James’s dick, circles his hips and says, “Fuck, James, yeah,” the last word breathy, tapering off into a moan. “Make me come. I want to-“  
  
James’s hands settle back on his hips, holding Kendall in place. He keeps him from grinding back when that’s all he needs, and Kendall practically cries in protest. He squirms, trying to force the outline of James’s dick deeper. “Dude, no, _why_ -“  
  
James laughs, guttural. “I’m giving you what you want.”  
  
He punches forward with his dick and then pulls back so far he’s nearly gone, leaving Kendall hollow. Before Kendall can complain, can do much more than make an incomprehensible noise, James is back again, building up a mechanical, relentless rhythm that makes Kendall’s sag boneless. James is the only things keeping him upright. When James fists his cock, matching the pace of his hips with his hand, Kendall nearly falls to his knees.  
  
James whispers, “Come for me,” and Kendall does, white bubbling up from his dick like a fountain, drizzling over the sides of James’s still moving hand. Kendall reaches back, winds his fingers in James’s hair, trembling, just wanting him close.  
  
“Now you. James, _come on_.”  
  
James fucks him so hard and brutal that Kendall’s knees shake. It makes Kendall thinks about all the other ways they could do this, about being naked and sweaty and totally owned. James comes with his dick kissing deep, mouthing nonsense sounds against the shell of Kendall’s ear. They stand there, static and shaking, listening to each other’s breath calm and the distant thunder of shitty club music flood back in. Outside the bathroom stall, a group of girls laugh, obnoxiously drunk. James squeezes Kendall’s middle. Kendall lets his hands fall back to his sides. “That was…”  
  
James extracts himself, careful. He slides off the condom and throws it in the nearby toilet, uncaring, flushing with the heel of his boot. Kendall ends up balancing himself against a clean wall, wondering if he should attempt to wipe up the fresco of his dried cum or leave it there. Will anyone care?  
  
He’s worn out, sexed out, and still a little bit drunk. Getting his jeans back up his thighs is hard enough. No way is he going to _clean_. He hasn’t gotten a response yet. James isn’t even looking at him. Kendall falters. “James?”  
  
James is fixated by his own pants, fingers stumbling over the zipper as he yanks it up.  
  
“ _James_?”  
  
“I was jealous,” James admits, shoulders heaving.  
  
“Of what?”  
  
“You got all that attention. You liked it.”  
  
“I did not.”  
  
“Did too,” James argues, eyes snapping up. “You were only _scared of the gay_ because you wanted to give it a try.”  
  
Kendall is inexplicably angry, liquor sour in his stomach, his ass and his spine aching from James. “And you thought you’d be the one to show me?”  
  
“I gave it to you better than any of those guys could,” James retorts, holding up his hand, still wet with Kendall’s cum. “You loved it. You fucking loved it.”  
  
“I know! So why the hell are we arguing, you asshole?”  
  
James blinks. “I thought-“  
  
“You thought what?”  
  
“I thought…maybe…you didn’t like it?”  
  
Kendall takes a step forward, stumbles, really, right into James’s arms. He winds his hands back up in the tragic mess he’s made of James’s hair and mutters, “You’re a gigantic idiot. I don’t beg like a little bitch for everyone, okay?” He has to pause, to swallow this scared thing in his throat. He has to say this now. He’ll lose his courage when he’s sober. “I’d do that again. With you.”  
  
James perks up. “Really?”  
  
Kendall kisses him. He uses his tongue like James used his dick, exploring, figuring out what it takes to make James Diamond moan his name, brokenly. He can feel it reverberate down his esophagus, the sound settling in his bones. He breaks away, panting, already impossibly turned on, again.  
  
There’s time for that later. He decides, “I want to dance.”  
  
James’s eyes bug out. “Aren’t you sore?”  
  
“I’ll get another drink,” Kendall says, because yeah, he does kind of feel like he should be laid out on his bed back home. Anesthetic alcohol can’t hurt, and he’s not ready to go home yet. He aches, but he also has that livewire chord ringing in his chest, the sense-memory of James touching him turned to adrenaline in his blood. He needs to channel all that energy somewhere, into music, into dancing, into teasing himself against James’s body to see what gets him all horny and frustrated.  
  
James shifts, shoves his hands in his pockets, takes them back again. His face is painted in shadows and neon light, the fake blue-corn moon shining over both of them. “You don’t want to, uh, talk, or whatever?”  
  
Kendall kisses him again, softer this time. He does want to talk, probably, when he doesn’t have the scent of James and banana liquor and sex resting on his skin. It’ll probably be serious, and it will probably involve a lot of thinking. For now he wants to lose himself in a bass line and James, in the glow of a party that it isn’t even close to over.  
  
“We have all night.”


End file.
